


Glitter-encrusted Shamrocks

by SherlocksSister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Craic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, St. Patrick's Day, Trouser Snakes, shamrocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: Happy St. Patrick's Day!Sherlock, John and Rosie celebrate St. Patrick's Day with face-painting and glitter-encrusted Shamrocks. Later in the day there is whiskey and, ahem, trouser snakes."John removes his finger, making Sherlock pout in protest and dips it into the golden whiskey again. This time, he allows it to drip from his finger down Sherlock’s chest, over the jut of his collarbone and trickle down between the pectoral muscles."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of craic (the Irish word for fun - I have my own theory this may be the root of the use of 'crack' in fandom). un-betaed because I wanted to get it done quickly.

John stumbles in the front door and nearly trips over the pile of post sitting inside on the floor. He shoves it all on top of the shopping in the bag and sprints up the stairs, mostly to prove to himself that he still can. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen, goggles on, camel dressing gown covering his bare-nakedness and is just leaning over the table with the Bunsen Burner when John rounds the corner with a screech. John drops the shopping bag, ignoring the way their dinner spills all over the floor, an apple disappearing under his chair. It will be found, half mouldy, three weeks later, when Rosie crawls out with it in her mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock you’re going to dip your...your..” John waves a hand frantically at Sherlock’s nether regions which are now perilously close to a glass beaker full of an unknown substance.” He rushes round and pushes the beaker closer to the centre of the table. 

“Oh. Hello, John.” Sherlock notices his husband for the first time, “Did you bring the methylated spirits?”

“Put some clothes on, love, we really don’t need any more accidents with your experiments do we? I mean, we still haven’t got the scorch marks out the ceiling yet. Why are you naked, by the way?”

Sherlock looks down, vaguely surprised by the sight of his penis peeking through the gap in the dressing gown. 

“Ah, yes. Rosie went for her nap and I took the opportunity for a shower. I had a bit of a breakthrough while I was washing my hair and needed to run another test. I got a bit distracted.” He looks down again, appearing a little surprised that his penis is still naked.

Not for the first time, John finds himself without anything useful to further contribute to the conversation and so collects up the shopping to start dinner. He flicks through the collection of post, separating out the junk from their bills. Two envelopes containing cheques are stabbed to the mantelpiece beside a postcard from a relieved client. It had turned out her husband wasn’t cheating on her but, instead, had taken a second job as a night cleaner to earn the money to take her on the holiday of a lifetime. 

The last piece of post was a leaflet from the London Irish Centre in Camden advertising their annual St. Patrick’s Day celebrations the following day. John was reading over it as Sherlock reemerged, dressed and carrying a sleepy Rosie in his arms. 

“Look who woke up, Daddy. What have you got there?”

“St. Patrick’s Day at the London Irish Centre in Camden. They’re having a dressing-up party with a bouncy castle and face painting. Could be fun, we could bring Rosie?” He hands the leaflet to Sherlock in exchange for their daughter and heads to the kitchen to get her a drink. 

In the living room, Sherlock snorts derisively. 

“Look John.” He points to the leaflet.

_ “Come and join us in celebrating the Irishman responsible for riding Ireland of it’s snakes.”  _

John laughs at the typo.

“Exactly John! St. Patrick wasn’t an Irishman! Peddlers of inaccuracies. I should go over there and ..”

“Hang on. What do you mean St. Patrick wasn’t Irish?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “St. Patrick was  _ Welsh _ , John.” 

For a moment, John wonders if this is something that Sherlock has made up, just to make him feel stupid. How could the patron saint of Ireland possibly not be Irish? But this is Sherlock and he is always right so John is prepared to go with it.

“Welsh? Are you sure?”

“Well, as sure as we can be about anything from the 5th century. Yes, he was born in Wales, captured as a teenager and forced into slavery in Ireland. He escaped back to Wales but later returned to Ireland as a priest.”

“Where he banished the snakes?” Somehow, John already knows this is going to be wrong but wants to give his husband the pleasure of correcting him.

“No, John. The Ice Age banished the snakes from Ireland and, as the glaciers melted and Ireland became separated from the rest of the European landmass, they never returned. There were never any snakes to banish.”

John’s education is brought to an abrupt halt by Rosie flinging her cup at his head and demanding “Dink!” John is still smiling to himself about the world’s most observant man missing that typo as he potters about cooking dinner. 

The following day they bring Rosie over to the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, dressed up in her emerald T-shirt. There is a mix of people from all over the world enjoying being Irish for a day, as well as a lot of Irish and English people. 

Rosie is very proud of the green flowers painted onto her face and keeps thrusting her cheek at her Daddies to admire. John’s favourite part of the day is watching Sherlock on the bouncy castle with Rosie, holding her hands as the other children make the castle bounce up and down around them, his curls going up and down with the movement. Just for a moment, John is struck by how much their lives have changed and how very happy he is.

Sherlock’s least favourite part of the day is the red-headed man who sidles up to John while he and Rosie are on the bouncy castle for a second time. Sherlock ignores him until he watches the man lean in and whisper something in John’s ear. Scooping a protesting Rosie up and stalking over, he arrives at John’s side just in time to hear the man ask:

“So, tell me, do you have a bit of Irish in you?” John shakes his head politely and the man leans in and leers, “Would you like a bit?” 

Sherlock looms over the man and glares at him silently before kissing John possessively. John responds in kind; he adores a jealous Sherlock. The red-head doesn’t bother to apologise, just slips away carefully into the crowd.

There is singing and dancing, Sherlock demonstrating a surprising knowledge of traditional Irish songs. Rosie dances and dances. Somewhere during the day, John acquires a headband sporting glitter-encrusted shamrocks on springs. Every time he nods his head, the shamrocks sparkle and bounce and Rosie lets out a peal of laughter, so he does it often and energetically. 

By early evening, Rosie is worn out despite the sugar rush from a cupcake slathered in electric green buttercream. They make their way home, picking up fish and chips on the way. 

Sprawled across the sofa, Sherlock selects the most delicate bits of fish and feeds them to Rosie while he polishes off a surprising amount of chips himself. As John gets Rosie into her pajamas, Sherlock plays a slowed-down version of a jig he has stored somewhere in his mighty brain, transforming it into a lilting lullaby. 

While John tucks Rosie in, Sherlock roots around in the back of a cupboard and finds half a bottle of Bushmills whiskey. John returns to find Sherlock relaxing on the sofa, head back and eyes closed, whiskey in his hand. Serene. Peaceful. He stops for a moment to admire the view.

John collects his own glass and  joins Sherlock on the sofa. Sherlock turns his head but doesn’t lift it and gazes at his husband through half-closed, contended eyes. When John kisses him, Sherlock tastes of ketchup, salt and whiskey. Sherlock remains reclining as John eases over into Sherlock’s lap and nips at his jaw line, sucking and kissing the elongated stretch of pale, inviting neck. 

He opens the first button of Sherlock’s basil green shirt, lightly stroking the skin he reveals. Each lower button is eased open, the skin below worshiped with tongue and fingers. In response, Sherlock runs his hands up and down John’s flexed thighs, holding his arse firmly in place on his lap, squeezing and pulling John closer.

When every button is open, John separates the sides of the shirt then leans behind him, reaching for his whiskey tumbler. He dips in a finger and places it in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s gaze bores into John as he sucks and licks the finger, making John groan and rock his covered erection into Sherlock’s naked belly. 

John removes his finger, making Sherlock pout in protest and dips it into the golden whiskey again. This time, he allows it to drip from his finger down Sherlock’s chest, over the jut of his collarbone and trickle down between the pectoral muscles. Transfixed by the sight of the tiny droplet making its way down over Sherlock’s skin, he repeats it again and again. The coolness of the liquid makes Sherlock’s skin goosebump as the droplets take different paths; some run down over a nipple, others flow straight down and accumulate, pooling in Sherlock’s belly button, glowing golden in the evening light.

Unable to resist any longer, John leans down and begins to lick up the whiskey with the broad of his tongue, bending low and working back up to Sherlock’s mouth, each lick ending in a light kiss on those perfect lips. When John reaches Sherlock’s nipples, he sucks and licks all traces of the drink away, making Sherlock keen and pull John’s hips hard into him as he pushes his erection up towards John.

This time, when John’s mouth meets his, Sherlock devours him, one hand on the back of John’s head, the other pulling John’s shirt out of his jeans. The kiss lasts and lasts until they are panting when they finally pull apart.

Belts are undone, shirts and trousers pulled off. They switch places on the sofa, Sherlock now naked in John’s lap. He takes both their cocks in hand and slowly strokes them, a soft, teasing glide of gentle pressure. His other hand is holding John’s shoulder and John is holding tight to Sherlock’s waist.

“God, Sherlock, that’s ahhh...” John throws his head back as Sherlock fractionally tightens his grip. “What do you want, love, my beautiful boy? Tell me, before it’s too late and I come all over your belly.”

Sherlock, eyes glazed and unable to stop moving his hand, lowers his mouth to John’s ear. In his deepest, most luxuriant voice he growls.

“I find I am Ireland to your Saint Patrick, John. I wish you to rid me of my snake.”

John throws back his head in laughter, meeting his husband’s teasing eyebrow. 

“Did you really think  I wouldn’t notice that typo?” Sherlock gasps as John pushes him off his lap to stand. “I’ve been waiting all day to use that line.”

“Bed. Now” John demands. “I don’t think we have any green lube but we might have some lime-flavoured. It will have to do. Should I wear the glittery shamrocks?” 

He grabs Sherlock’s hand and drags him off to their bedroom, where John watches his exquisite husband sit above him and slowly ride his cock until they both come so hard, their cries can probably be heard in Dublin.


End file.
